Dead Little Mean Girl. Eva Darrows

on his belt, his pants were about to fall down. Plenty of girls were more than willing to hop on his junk for a pretty bauble or two.

      Quinn eluded his grasp. She’d toy with him and then back out, always blaming her boyfriend du week or some other totally avoidable whatever for keeping them apart. The reality was she preferred the pretty boys, but she wasn’t so dumb as to permanently burn that bridge. Josh smartened up after a while and went after easier fare, but he maintained an eye on Quinn’s pert butt, hoping it’d sashay his way.

      If she wanted him to help her get the job, she might have to pay for the favor. The question was with what.

      * * *

      Answer: nothing.

      Josh, still vying to insert himself into Quinn’s orifices, nudged his father about getting Quinn hired. He would later regret this maneuver, as so many of us regret interactions with Quinn, but at the time he probably figured the hot chick would owe him one so why not.

      I could have told him the why-nots at length, but he wouldn’t have listened. There were some downfalls to being invisible.

      Quinn surprised the family on a Saturday morning wearing a logoed pink polo shirt, a purple visor and tan shorts cut so short, I was pretty sure anyone walking behind her would mistake them for panties. It was ridiculous, especially considering we were due for the first snowfall of the season and she’d freeze to death.

      “This uniform is so ugly,” she whined, tucking the shirt into her sort-of-shorts. “This pink washes me out.”

      “I think your ass hanging out is the bigger problem,” I said, loud enough for my mother to hear. Mom biffed me on the back of the head, almost causing me to choke on my Cheerios.

      “That’s God getting back at you.” Quinn grabbed her pocketbook. “I’m off. Wish me luck!”

      Karen smiled after her. It was rare for Quinn to actually listen to anything her mother said, so it probably felt like a huge victory that this one time, Quinn had taken her advice. Once I stopped hacking on cereal, Mom and I eyed one another warily. And then Mom tittered. It was quiet, but it was enough to get me going, too. The next thing you knew, we were both giggling like idiots. Karen looked confused, but neither one of us wanted to rain on her parade so we kept further commentary to ourselves. Though Mom did whisper to me, “It’s good she’s not a boy or they’d be able to tell if she’s circumcised.”

      We howled.

      I expected Quinn’s Bouncing Bear stint not to last, but she stuck with it. For that matter, she practically glowed whenever she came home. She wouldn’t lift a finger to help around the house, touch her homework, or do anything that required actual effort beyond cheerleading and doing her nails, but for the first month of her employment, Quinn traipsed off to work with nary a complaint, taking early shifts on Saturdays and Sundays and coming home late—sometimes after dark. It didn’t cross me as weird until she missed a cheerleading practice. Melody called the house looking for her, saying that Quinn’s phone was turned off, and had we seen her today? The squad needed her.

      I was watching a movie with Nikki at the time so I blew Melody off with a quick, “Nope, I’ll have her call you,” and hung up.

      Nikki eyeballed me from behind her copy of Rolling Stone.

      “Quinn missing a practice is like the Pope missing Sunday Mass, you realize. That chick is all about her spread eagles. I actually mean the sport ones this time.”

      I cocked my head to the side, thoughtful. Quinn’s disposition was less hell beast than usual, and lately she was even wearing long pants to work in lieu of short shorts because “someone asked her to.” Most days, she’d tell that someone to crap in their hat.

      “Something’s up,” I announced. “Her cell is never off.”

      Nikki ducked behind her magazine. “Ayep. If she missed cheerleading practice, it’s a doozy.”

      I didn’t relish the notion of involving myself in Quinn’s screwed-up life, but it was too strange to ignore. On the off chance she was on her way to becoming the next Walter White, I felt compelled to ask. Quinn was a creature of annoying habits. This habit was off the charts.

      Nikki took off early that night on account of a date, so I was home alone by the time Quinn rambled in from work. I sat on the couch with a book in one hand and a can of soda in the other. She immediately pulled some of her hair from over her shoulder around front, patting it into place until it covered her neck.

      “Hickey, huh?” I asked.

      She tsked. “None of your business, Emilia.”

      “Not my business, but if I noticed, your mother will.” I put down the book and leaned over the couch arm, sweeping the bangs from my eyes when they fell in front of my glasses. “Okay, so either you’re working twelve-hour shifts or you’re seeing someone. What’s up?”

      Quinn rarely engaged in deep thought, so when her face scrunched up and her head tilted to the side, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Constipation, maybe. Or the beginnings of a stroke. But then she flopped onto the chair beside me, moving in so close I couldn’t miss her Eau du Donut: a combination of grease, sugar and hazelnut.

      “I’m seeing an older man. Like, way older,” she said.

      That she had a boyfriend didn’t surprise me. That she was seeing an “older man” did but only because she was so very particular with her arm candy. She was also particular about how she presented herself when she went out with people—she always looked great, smelled great. Right then, she had jelly on her shoulder and coffee stains on her pants. Her Romeo must have really liked donuts.

      Maybe Quinn was doing Homer Simpson.

      “How much older?”

      “His forties. He says he loves me. Like, I think I might love him. He makes me feel so... Look what he bought me.” She reached into her pocket and produced gold hoop earrings with leafy charms dangling from the bottoms. Emeralds, maybe. Or peridots.

      “Are those real?” I admired the pretty before my brain kicked in and told me this is really wrong. “Wait. It doesn’t matter if they’re real. Holy crap. You’re seventeen! He’s fortysomething? That’s statutory in this state. Like, he could go to jail.”

      “That’s why you can’t say anything. I’m trusting you with this. Don’t screw me over. Please. I’m happy and I don’t want to ruin it.”

      My tongue twisted. This guy was as old as her dad, which maybe was the point. Was this some Electra complex manifesting? A result of neglect? Her dad rarely called, and when he did, it was for five or ten minutes before he was making his excuses. Heck, my dad flew planes back and forth to Dubai for rich businessmen but I still heard from him once a week.

      I rubbed the heel of my palm against my temple. It was a lot to take in, and nothing I could say would make any of it better. Quinn did the strangest thing then—she reached for me, her pointy fingernails digging into the back of my hand.

      “Promise me,” she demanded. “Please? I love him.”

      It was the please that got me. For all Quinn’s faults, she rarely asked me for anything. True, that was because she either didn’t like to acknowledge I was alive or was too busy torturing me to want or need stuff, but she hadn’t come to me so much as I’d gone to her. I’d inserted myself and it’d be a bad showing to screw her over with it.

      She gave my hand another squeeze.

      I groaned in defeat.

      “Fine. I promise I won’t say anything. But I’m going on the record here. It’s creepy and you should be careful.”

      “I will,” she promised. And for the first and last time in my life, Quinn pulled me into a hug. Despite all expectations otherwise, lightning did not strike me dead.

      * * *

      Quinn’s spring/winter romance continued for another three